Every Man Has His Price
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: ...and some guys work for free.


Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Thanks again to Georgi for the loan of her muse.

**Author's Note: **"Just Another Round of That Old Song" introduces us to Henry Willard, who received a twenty-five year sentence from Hardcastle back in 1958 for stealing a Brinks' truck and its $750,000 payload. The money was never recovered, and a newly-released and impenitent Willard is now being pursued by Joe Cagney, the detective who originally investigated the crime. Cagney quit the force, and intends to keep the money for himself once Willard leads him to it. Unfortunately, Henry's not certain where the truck full of cash ended up, since his point of reference—the half-built Los Angeles subway system—has long since been abandoned. Cagney kidnaps Willard, but Milt and Mark have his map and use it to ferret out the missing truck. At the moment when they first lay eyes on it, Mark seems seduced: all that cash just begging to be counted. A moment later, though, Cagney shows up with Willard in tow.

**Every Man Has His Price**

by L.M. Lewis

Hardcastle had heard him say it, and saw the look in his eyes—the kind of burning madness that makes men turn away from their duty, as Joe Cagney had. But a moment later it was gone, and in its place only a gentle chastisement and an even milder smile.

"Now Judge, what do you think I am?"

And they both bent to gather up what McCormick had spilled from the sack. Hardcastle had to admit it was with relief. After only a few months he couldn't possibly claim to know how his sidekick would react to temptation and yet—he somehow had. As soon as he'd heard that response he'd known he'd been expecting it all along.

Which was probably why he hadn't had to spare any surprise on hearing it, and no sympathy for McCormick's humorously wistful request to just count the damn pile once. He hadn't even been surprised for more than a second when Cagney himself turned up—like the bad side of a coin or the dark alternative in a morality play. He even hoped, for the fraction of a second that he had to think about it, that Mark wasn't feeling any regrets for dying an honest man.

It was old Henry, dragged down there by Cagney, who offered just a glimmer of hope by starting a pointless argument. Hardcastle was glad to jump aboard. Then Willard made an unexpected move on their distracted captor. He'd knocked Cagney's flashlight to the ground, at the same time that they'd extinguished their own.

Plunged into sudden darkness, Hardcastle saw only the blaze of the man's gun as he aimed it, point blank, at them. He returned fire. Cagney turned and fled. The judge could hear Mark moving and there were no groans of pain.

Hardcastle hollered, "Get after him," as he gave Mark a shove in the right direction. "I'll stay with the old man." It was forceful enough that the younger man didn't stand around asking questions, but not so hard that he didn't pause in momentary caution before heading once more into the breach.

No further gunfire was heard, just echoing footfalls and then the distant roar of the Coyote coming to life. Then silence returned.

"Henry?"

"Yeah, yeah. Too damn much excitement if you ask me."

There was a scrabbling sound, then nothing for a moment. Hardcastle frowned and put his hand to his own side. Just a ricochet, he thought. It was his personal experience that only minor injuries hurt this much.

"You okay, Henry?" The judge leaned forward and got his weight up over his feet, straightening slowly.

Willard must have gotten up as well. He saw the old man back-lit by what light there was filtering in from the end of the tunnel. He was staring in at the truck.

"Come on, Henry, nothin' to see here. It's not yours, remember?"

"It was," the man said plaintively.

"It wasn't. Not even for a minute." Hardcastle stepped over the broken bricks gingerly and took his arm. "Let's get out of here. It'll just make you crazy, standin' around staring at it. You okay?" he asked again.

Willard nodded in resignation. He seemed to have aged another ten years. Hardcastle wasn't feeling so spry himself. They limped slowly back up the tunnel, the judge wondering if Mark had finally cornered Cagney. Somehow he didn't have much doubt about that.

The walk out seemed considerably longer than the walk in had been, and by the time they approached the opening of the tunnel, the distant cacophony of sirens could be heard. Hardcastle frowned. He had a moment of slightly niggling regret. He'd shagged an ex-con off after a retired LAPD detective. There could be difficulties beyond those of pursuing an armed and determined man.

A moment after they emerged into the sunlight he saw a squad car headed down the sloping road in their direction. This one wasn't running lights and sirens, but also didn't seem to be merely meandering around. It was close enough when it pulled to a stop that Hardcastle could see the look the driver exchanged with his partner. There was a very evident 'uh-oh' quality to it, and then the man was holding his radio transmitter, addressing a few tense words into it. His partner was already emerging from the car, a placating but nervous smile on his face.

"You didn't put the cuffs on the wrong guy again, didja?" Hardcastle groused.

00000

They had, and Mark had a lot to say about it, though he was apparently worried enough to keep it to himself—even after the cuffs were off—until Hardcastle was on the scene.

"They _drew_ on me," he said aggrievedly, "and Cagney almost had 'em talked into letting him wander off. You shoulda seen it."

"Sorry, kiddo."

"No more of this 'Get after him, I'll stay with the old man' stuff from now on. Next time _I'll_ stay with the old man," Mark groused. "What's with that, anyway?"

The judge winced a smile. McCormick's frown gradually gave way to a look of puzzlement with a growing tinge of concern. He stepped back and eyed the older man sternly.

"A scrape," Hardcastle confessed quickly, hoping to get it out of the way.

"On what?" Mark asked disbelievingly. "And _where_?" He tugged at Hardcastle's untucked shirt tail and, seeing nothing on that side, circled around him to have a look at the other.

"It's nothin'," Hardcastle assured him.

"The hell it is," Mark said in disbelief, having apparently found the spot and now investigating it.

"Okay," he finally admitted, not sounding fully convinced, "Maybe it is just a scrape, but it's a _bullet_ scrape, for Pete's sake. And you go hollering for me to get after Cagney. What if it'd been worse, huh?"

Hardcastle wasn't sure which part of the whole worst-case scenario McCormick was most worked up about: him being out of commission while his sidekick was getting run down to the lock-up or—

"You coulda died." Having blurted it out, Mark stood there, looking suddenly self-conscious. He swallowed hard once and then sputtered, "They probably would've blamed that on me, too."

Hardcastle reached out to pat him on his shoulder. "Come on. Just needs a little iodine and a band-aid." He winced again as he took the first step. The hand turned into something more like a lean. "Maybe a couple of band-aids."

He smiled to show that was _all_ it needed and then added, "You done okay, kiddo."

"Yeah," Mark rubbed his wrist again and cast a disparaging glance over his shoulder at the cops now milling around the scene. "Next time, though, I want a note."


End file.
